CHAPTER II
I
Jones, Januarius Jones, born of whom he knew and cared not, becoming Jones alphabetically, January through a con- junction of calendar and biology, Januarius through the per- verse conjunction of his own star and the compulsion of food and clothing—Januarius Jones baggy in gray tweed, being lately a fellow of Latin in a small college, leaned upon a gate of iron grill-work breaking a levee of green and embryoni- cally starred honeysuckle, watching April busy in a hyacinth bed. Dew was on the grass and bees broke apple bloom in the morning sun while swallows were like plucked strings against a pale windy sky. A face regarded him across a sus- pended trowel and the metal clasps of crossed suspenders made a cheerful glittering.
The rector said: “Good morning, young man.” His shining dome was friendly against an ivy-covered wall above which the consummate grace of a spire and a gilded cross seemed to atc across motionless young clouds.
Januarius Jones, caught in the spire’s illusion of slow ruin, murmured: “Watch it fall, sir.’ The sun was full on his young round face.
The horticulturist regarded him with benevolent curiosity. “Fall? Ah, you see an aeroplane,” he stated. “My son was in that service during the war.” He became gigantic in black trousers and broken shoes. “A beautiful day for flying,” he said from beneath his cupped hand. “Where do you see it?”
“No, sir,” replied Jones, “no aeroplane, sir. I referred in a fit of unpardonable detachment to your spire. It was
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